


Wait

by LittleMaud



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Dark, Angst, Creepy, Emotionally Repressed, F/M, Pining, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-18
Updated: 2016-12-18
Packaged: 2018-09-09 12:44:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8891224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleMaud/pseuds/LittleMaud
Summary: In the first stages of what feels like love, Cullen looks forward to the Herald’s return from a dangerous and crucial journey.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This was a response to a prompt in the Dragon Age subreddit. The epigraph is from part three of "Tales of a Wayside Inn" by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

_O lost days of delight, that are wasted in doubting and waiting!_

_O lost hours and days in which we might have been happy!_

 

* * *

 

 

Cullen woke up on the tails of the standard dream. After a decade, it hardly even rankled anymore—just one of the uninspired refrains of his slumbering mind. He accepted it, perfunctorily folding it away for another night.

Especially on this advancing morning, the shroud held no sway; it slinked away with the strike of a match. Cullen carried the candle to his desk and set it next to the neat pile of letters and reports. He had intended on sorting through them all before retiring, but the sudden good news had turned into a bottle of Antivan wine Josephine had stowed away in a drawer. An old gift from a friend, the note still attached—‘ _Reserve it for a happy occasion._ ’ It hadn’t been opened yet.

Cullen knew there had been few reasons to celebrate in the last months. What scant moments of joy there were seemed stolen, a forbidden nod of sweet sleep while the knight-lieutenant turned his back. Even now, the weight of all that lay ahead chased his triumph down into sedate satisfaction. There were still a few hours before the others would rise; in the margins of these quiet hours, he could best do his work. He scrutinized every routine briefing out of respect for the tired soldier who had written it, considered gravely a scout’s concern that there was a renewed stir of bandits near their camp, and determined to thoroughly review the progress of the latest recruits tomorrow.

He sat back in his chair. The stack of parchment remained practically unchanged, but Cullen’s eye wandered, landing on the folded letter set aside from the rest. His arm lay on the desk, fingers brushing the page. Warring with his resolve only briefly, he flipped it open and scanned the words again.

 

_It looked bad for a long minute, Commander. Lots of blood. Maker, you humans have so much blood. Then she opened her eyes and glared around at our mooning faces. Her first words? ‘We’ve wasted enough time.’ She’s fine. Sometimes I wonder if she’s really the Herald of Andraste, but I never doubt that in some past life she died showing up late to something. Such impatience. We’re coming home tomorrow, and I’m happy to report that the mission has been a success. I know you hate it when I write these reports (some people happen to enjoy my ‘meandering’ way with words), but look—I’m cutting it off here for once. The Herald wants to say a few words to our new friends. I’ve never seen her so jubilant._

_As for the long version—you’ll have to buy the book like everybody else._

_— Varric_

 

It was not only the fact of her survival that had lifted his spirits, but the little knowledge that she was so delighted. The secondhand joy had surprised him, announcing itself with a sharp pinch in his chest, the first time he skimmed the letter for the essentials. His eyes lingered on that line: ‘ _I’ve never seen her so jubilant._ ’ If anyone deserved a drawn-out sip of happiness, it was her. She smiled so seldom, but suddenly Cullen longed to witness it—quite selfishly, like a simple creature, he just wanted to enjoy the look of it. Varric’s words held aloft that possibility like a precious gift.

At night, sometimes, he loitered on untold possibilities. The possibility that his men and women would fall. The possibility that he was unfit for his position. But lately there had been other, more grateful thoughts mingled with the anxieties. If the Herald hadn’t been at the Conclave. If Cassandra and Leliana _had_ been at the Conclave. When Cullen remembered this, it was difficult not to tilt his head toward the warmth of the Maker’s silent regard.

The Herald had been characteristically reticent the night before departure, preferring to meditate in solitude. On his way out after a brief conversation with the Mother, he’d found her knelt before the altar in the chapel, staring unblinkingly up into the face of Andraste. He’d turned to leave, but she turned and hailed him, as if there were a burning matter of theology that needed resolution.

“Do you ever think about the past, Commander?” she asked in a steady voice. “Of what might have been?”

Cullen paused by a pew, thrown by the abrupt question.

“Not very much,” he answered. Immediately, he wondered if he should have told her the truth instead. If she would have wanted it.

“I suppose it’s foolish,” she said. “There’s no point to it.”

But he understood. Often his own thoughts —and feelings—didn’t seem to serve even a single stupid purpose. He gazed long at her, wanting for something, unable to speak his mind.

She drew closer. “You look grim.”

If he did, her own expression was his mirror. The dim flickering of the candles cast a strange glow over her face, her eyes. He had grown accustomed to their look in the past few months, and he recognized the unease that lurked beneath the surface. She was resilient, self-possessed, but he wondered what she really felt in these still, private moments, between the witching hours that kept away the morning. Did a touch of fear creep into her eyes now? Did she steel herself, imagining an end? He searched for words. Perhaps something comforting, or even a joke—but he knew no jests. Any soothing remarks that offered themselves up felt like cheap platitudes. The tension hovered precariously, stretched thick in the stark space between them.

Or perhaps she felt nothing at all. Perhaps it was delusion, mirage, a one-sided tautness that only he felt in her presence. He looked her over for a sign, but he could not read everything in her face yet. For all the small moments they had shared between prayers, just like this, they were still mostly strangers. The thought tugged at something inside of him. If only he could just reach out—brief contact with something familiar in them both, allowing himself to nurture it just a little.

“You’re always a man of few words, Cullen,” she noted. His fist clenched unconsciously when she used his name.

“I’m only concerned about—tomorrow,” he said. He shook it away. “But everything’s ready. There’s nothing left to do but to wait.”

She seemed to consider this for a while. “I’ll remember that you’re waiting,” she said.

He lifted his head, both believing and unbelieving. She had never looked so present, so alive to him as she did in that moment, the air rippling sharp around her as though she were a rift in the veil. He tried to look more closely, took a half step forward to see if it was really a tilt of amusement on her lips or if it was only the angle of his gaze, but before he could say anything, before he could muster up the courage, she turned her head. Such impatience. From this view he could only see the stern line of her profile.

“I hope we can get an early start in the morning,” she remarked. “I don't want to delay."

Cullen exhaled. “No. I know you don’t.”

Then she had bade him a brisk good night, striding out of the chapel without another word, another glance. His disappointment somehow so keen.

Now, Cullen saw that the sun had yawned over the Frostback Mountains. There was a flurry of eager movement outside, and Cullen walked quickly out of his quarters, the letter abandoned on the desk. He pushed through the gathering crowd and stood in front of his proud soldiers, proud himself of the flag that approached them. She came into view, and for an instant he could not believe it was her. Her face was radiant with rare happiness, and he hung back to allow her admirers to overwhelm her with their awe. Behind her, the sea of the Templar Order followed obediently, curving at her every will. She was a fearsome thing to behold.

As she dismounted, she caught sight of him—and her gaze endured, still and silent. Cullen felt a jolt in his stomach. It was enough already; this was enough, was worth the restless sleep, the sick fear that he would not see her again, would never get another chance.

But she had returned to him. She came toward him now, something fierce and relentless in her face, weaving through the crowd slowly. She was strange in this morning light—so much more effusive, her movements more protracted. When she reached him, he expected just a small brush, the same she’d given everyone else, but her hand touched his and lingered. If those meager scraps of happiness since the Breach had seemed stolen before, here suddenly was the joy that he could claim wholly his own, which nothing in heaven or hell could diminish. It swelled unbridled and complete, and for once she did not efficiently hurry away to the next score of business.

She stood by him, and he turned slightly, his face near her soft, dark hair. She smelled different, or perhaps he simply hadn’t quite known what she really smelled like. But there would be time. Time to learn her completely, until nothing of her gave him that small forlorn pang anymore. He allowed himself a moment of unfettered hope at the prospect of their unwritten future.

Her hand tightened around his. He smiled down, entranced, staring deeply into her curiously hungry eyes. Perhaps soon, he would even find the strength to tell her just how often he’d thought of his past. Share with her his most difficult memories.

What harm could they do now? They were only nightmares, driven away by any approaching light.

 

 

* * *

 

_ Ships that pass in the night, and speak each other in passing, _

_ Only a signal shown and a distant voice in the darkness; _

_ So on the ocean of life, we pass and speak one another, _

_ Only a look and a voice, then darkness again and a silence. _

**Author's Note:**

> Set during Champions of the Just, inspired by this [death screen.](http://i.imgur.com/7TiDs3T.jpg) Thanks for reading!


End file.
